Echoes of Angels That Won't Return
by ShinigamiForever
Summary: It’s Harry’s duty and responsibility to hunt and eradicate Dark wizards, even if Draco Malfoy is the one he will have to kill. But that victory will prove to be a cup of bitter wine. A Draco/Harry slash fic.


Echoes of Angels That Won't Return

By: ShinigamiForever

Summary: It's Harry's duty and responsibility to hunt and eradicate Dark wizards, even if Draco Malfoy is the one he will have to kill. But that victory will prove to be a cup of bitter wine. A Draco/Harry slash fic. 

Warnings: Slash. Don't like, don't read. There's a thing called the back button. But if you don't mind that, then watch out for the angst. And if that doesn't bug you, watch out for utter strangeness. 

Disclaimers: You know the drill. ~_^ None of the characters are mine. Just the actual story. 

A/N: The mirror version of "July He Will Fly." People who wanted a happier sequel will probably kill me for this one, because it's just as angsty as "July He Will Fly", but it has a bit of a lighter tone in the style. I promise, I'm trying really really hard. I WILL get this right one of these days. Right. Harry sounds so much older than I intended. I realized I had thought they were 13 in their first year, and counted up to them being 20 in their last. I was wrong, but I can't change it now. Just forgive.

===

For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of our tasks; the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

===

The night before I had gotten the assignment, Ron had dragged me to a local bar and tried to get me drunk in an attempt to 'lighten me up.'

It was really a waste of time; I hate alcohol with a fervor. I hate it almost as much as I hate Death Eaters, Snape, and Voldemort. Not that Snape is connected to the other two, of course.

But try telling that to Ron.

As it turns out, he was the one who ended up drunk, not me. He's the worst kind, slobbery and giddy at the same time, and impossible to remove from the bottle once he's slightly tipsy. He gets this blush all over his face that really makes his hair stand out. It's extremely entertaining to watch him if you're from a sober vantage point. 

There's an old saying that truth dribbles out when wine dribbles in. Ron can babble for hours under alcohol. He told me way too much about him and Hermione, stuff I had no intention of ever needing to know. But it was that same saying that kept me from drinking more than a couple of sips, and then it kept me from opening my mouth too much. 

I have never had a problem with glossing over details. In other words, I can lie, but only to a certain point; when I reach that point, it is obvious that I am lying. Ron once told me I get this constipated look on my face, like I really need to use the bathroom, that or puke. I have never personally witnessed this, but I suppose it must be true because Ron is well known for his candid remarks. More like blatant honesty that seriously undermines any diplomatic skills, but like I said, I gloss over details. 

However, I have always had a problem lying to myself. Reality is, indeed, something that even when you stop believing in it, it's still there. That's the problem. My mind is the constant presence of an omniscient self observing my every movement. I have never had difficulty in knowing my wants and needs, my whims and responsibilities. 

Thus, I am afraid of the truth I might emit when under the influence of alcohol. Imagine me telling Ron, who hate Malfoys just as much as I hate alcohol and Death Eaters, that the same Draco Malfoy, who once had gotten us into unimaginable amounts of trouble, was in love with me. That's about as hard as convincing Hermione to lay back an be a couch potato for a day.

It was actually rather stupid of me to be afraid. Ron was too dead drunk to really remember anything he himself had said, much less anything he would have heard from me. His hangover was amusing. He spent about 2 hours retching into the toilet bowl, then another hour trying to find aspirin. 

Another reason I hate alcohol. The inevitable hangover.

But I suppose youth itself is an intoxication, old age the hangover. Or was that victory and defeat? Nonetheless, I am almost inclined to believe I had dribbled in some truth the night before, and my hangover is inducing a hallucinatory nightmare.

More rubbish.

I know exactly what this is.

I toy with the slip of paper in my hands. I have been doing this for quite a while. The edges and corners are slightly frayed because of my nervous movements. The ink is still clear. I think of it like a verdict written in the form of a name, the name being both the recipient and the sentence. Over the last 3 years, I have seen many names on similar sheets of paper. Each are different, yet each are the same. 

They might have children. They might be family men, smart and witty, casual and business-like. Just the same, some might be young floaters, filled with a sense of self-importance and arrogance. Some might be couples, some married. It doesn't matter. They end up with the same fate, the same conclusion: eternal damnation.

I was once told that there were no assassins left in the world. It was a lie. No assassin was better fitted than an Auror. We murder and rampage like the 'drafts of wind' once did. We sneak through lies and entanglements and do rapid about-faces that would please any politician. And there is no time for guilt. We each do our part, and someone must do the dirty work. Up until now, the murders never really bothered me. Occasionally, there is a bit of recognition, familiarity in the way the name sounds, that traces its way back to Hogwarts. But eventually that little bit of connection is cut short by the task I was sent to do. All the assignments I had received which I recognized were usually old Slytherins I was more than happy to get rid of. Vengeance is God's, but who is to say we are not playing God already. 

Staring mutely at the name in my hands, though, proves that my sins will catch up with me one by one. 

There is nothing unusual about the name. The letters are printed in the painfully nondescript handwriting that screams secretary. The D has a slight slant to it, the Y a faint hook. It is not the letters themselves, but the order in which they are arranged to form a name.

Draco Malfoy.

I try to whisper the name out loud, hoping to sedate the mad repetition in my head, but ironically, nothing issues forth. I am caught in this snapshot of a moment, and I cannot move. It is a stupid picture Nature took. A young man, sitting on a park bench, a slip of parchment between his fingers, a stunned expression forever locked on his face. No artistic beauty. No symbolism. Just raw shock. 

But I am only pitying myself.

I chose this path to take. I was aware of the consequences. I believed in fate. I trusted what I was doing to be right. I chose the black and white view. I switched off my conscience. I followed blindly. I-

I was an idiot.

Someone once said foolishness is only wisdom turned upside down. What did they know. Foolishness is passion-induced thought. It is humor locked up in a wine cellar, steeping itself in dark red grape juice. Foolishness is all the stupidity of man trapped in a closet, a little crack allowing the concentrated flow to seep out. 

But ah! blindness is different. Blindness is infinite sleep, a blindfold stretched over eyes of diamonds. Blindness is the bliss of ignorance and the foolishness of lovers. It is the smoke rising from the lit fires of love. Blindness is me looking at my reflection and not seeing traces of a murderer in my face. Blindness is me avoiding the newspaper, not wanting to see the glaring headlines. Blindness is me searching for truth in an era of lies.

Blindness is me staring at the face of an old enemy and not realizing the way my heart lurched in my chest.

I get up, stretching my cramped muscles with unnerving calm. It is a shell-shocked response, perhaps. I feel nothing. I make my way to the owlery, nodding politely to passerbys. I know my way. It is something I had long ago deemed important, to know your way around a particular place. This characterless town is no different. All names are just a blur, all people a passing glance.

But that one name, written on my slip of parchment-

I am not going to think about that quite yet, I tell myself. I automatically follow myself into the owlery. The hooting of animals is soothing, a gentle remainder that all was still well in the world to others. I use Hedwig on occasions, of course, but she is conspicuous. And a snowy owl traveling to and fro would attract too much attention. So I varied my owls. I chose different ones, different species. I sent my mail at different times. 

I have become cautious.

A particular owl strikes my eye this time. It is hiding in the corner, as if ashamed, but it is confident. The owl is dark, completely the color of a raven. The feathers seem to glow with inner light, each tip generating its own special sparkle. A mass of white feathers surrounds its face, an intelligent beak, watchful onyx eyes. It blends well, yet sticks out loftily. There seems to be something amiss in its behavior, as if it was more human than it was owl. I coax it forward, eyeing it curiously. It comes forth, cooing and fluttering his feathers a little to brag.

I reach into my robe pocket for a spare quill and a shred of parchment. But when I fetch them out, I completely halt, the feather balanced awkwardly in between my fingers as if it were to fall. The parchment is blank, dauntingly so. My mind is like the parchment. I am at a loss for words.

What could I say, after all?

__

Draco, 

Hey, how are you? Just thought you might like to know, I'm dropping by to put you under arrest-

I fight back a bitter laugh. The black owl tilts its head at me, sensing a mood in the air, then went back to placidly nipping at my shoulder while I ponder what to write. The other owls regard us suspiciously, as if we both carried some kind of contagious disease, and coming in close contact with us would result in infection. I am used to that kind of shying away. From the nonchalant manner of the owl, I believe it is too.

__

Draco

I have gotten that far. The question presents itself. Should I use Draco? Or perhaps the formal Malfoy would do better, I do not know. My quill is poised on top of the printed words, threatening to black it out.

I hastily write another line.

__

You said I could drop by sometime

Which was true, but I'm not sure if I want to. It would take too much advantage over the situation, to take Draco's act of friendship and use it for my own demise. But what could I do? The slip of parchment with his name weighed heavily in my pocket. The name, printed across the page, stampeding into my head. 

__

You said I could drop by sometime 

and I add _so are you free tonight at 7:30?_ Re-reading my work, I scratch out both lines, only to find myself staring at his name, written by my own hands. 

__

Draco

What to say? I had never actually written to my targets before, just showed up. Why should it be any different for Draco?

Because he stood in front of a coffee shop in the rain and soaked in the cool wet air.

Because he has silver blond hair that look like iced sun rays.

Because his eyes held depth like icy glacier water.

Because you-

I hurriedly tell myself to shut up and write _You told me to drop by sometime, so I hope you won't mind if I stop by around 7:30 tonight._

That written, I add the customary line _If there's a problem, send an owl back _and sign my name with a caution. It comes out cramped looking.

__

Draco

You told me to drop by sometime, so I hope you won't mind if I stop by around 7:30 tonight. If there's a problem, send an owl back.

Harry

I attach it to the foot of the raven owl. It stands unnaturally still, calm and patient until the very end. "You know where Draco Malfoy lives?" I ask it, and it gives me a motion akin to a nod. I laugh, then push my arm forward. It speed off out of the window, a gust of black wind that ruffled the feathers of the other owls. They gave him reproachful looks as it passed.

It is Draco's harbinger of death.

I think almost dreamily, how appropriate that it is black.

***

I've never had qualms about an arrest until now.

Then again, I've never had to make an appointment. Usually, I just charge into the house, demand the suspect, then transport them to the Ministry of Magic. It's afterwards, when I hear about how the receive the Kiss, that I start having doubts and misgivings. Of course, by then, it's too late. The victim is too far gone.

The black owl had come back with my message attached on its leg. There was another word, in another handwriting, written at the end. Simply:

__

Fine.

It had looked cramped too, as if he too had spent a long time deliberating what to say. But nevertheless, it had expressed approval. I had given the owl a little bit of money for its job, and it, hooting happily, flew off to deposit the money.

It's 7:26 and I'm outside his door, stock still and completely, utterly frightened. 

It is one thing to think about killing someone and another to be so close to doing it. I am usually in control of myself when I commit what I call legal crimes. Usually, I am a immovable image of calm and determination, unfazed by the violence and hatred that follows my arrival. Now, I am a quivering mass of apprehension. I am not in control here. 

His house is a pleasing little residence, surprisingly small and cozy looking. There is none of the pompous elegance that I expected; instead, it is of average size. The outside is brick, deep and rich red. It gives a feeling of elegance and time, if not opulence. There are no vines to symbolize the ascent of age, but there is still something old about it. The windows are not lighted, with curtains drawn over their gaping eyes. There is a little rose garden in the front. 

I start to giggle hysterically. Roses had always conjured up images of swooning women and men on one knee, fake romanticism and all that. It never occurred to me that Draco would be romantic. But on closer inspection, the roses are different from the ones I usually see. There are wild brambles within the roses. The flowers themselves have small heads, seemingly coaxed out from the weeds. Their perfume is mesmerizing. In the semi-dusky air, they seem like the subject of some painting. I reach out to touch them and am shocked to discover they are real.

Each step to his door is absolute torture. My body rebels at my mind's command as I take step after step until I am standing mere inches away from the solid wood. The reasons for leaving are overpowering the reasons for staying like a tsunami wave drowning out a little lifeboat. I hold on tenaciously to my sangfroid and knock at the door.

There is a slight rustle inside, but after eternity of soulless silence, I try again. "Hey," I murmur, hand pressed against the door and feeling immensely stupid. "It's me. Harry."

I feel the door seem to shift beneath my hand. He is using some spell, evidently to see whether or not I'm really who I say I am. I manage to smile for him. A quick breath, and the door is swinging open.

He is framed in the doorway like a setting frames a jewel. There is something tense about him, much like a rabbit caught by the gaze of a fox. In Muggle clothes- a plain T-shirt and jeans- he is breathtakingly stunning, full of evocative shadows and dimly cast light. The sunset glow shines on his hair, making fiery orange and warm red a part of the silver brocade. 

But his eyes are the soul of his appearance. They seem to be two pools of running water, cold gray blue on the surface that gives way to warmer azure and hints of silver that catches and then pulls away. His eyes are like a photo of iris flowers pulled under a screen of blue. They are blue silk crumpled between shards of broken ice. They are the epitome of his kind of beauty: savage and icy, yet dangerously enthralling and alluring.

"I suppose the password is 'It's me, Harry,'" I joke, trying to catch a breath I didn't know I lost.

"Actually, it's 'Draco Malfoy is the greatest,' but I guess 'It's me, Harry' will have to work," he replies. I listen to his voice carefully and think I can almost catch the same traces of breathlessness there too. The wand in his left hand quickly disappears into some unknown hiding place. I suddenly remember he is left-handed. 

"Would you like to come in?" he asks, now nervous and fiddling with the hem of his shirt. 

"Thanks," I say, stepping in after him. The lights are off in the small living room. Through the doorway, I can see it leads to the kitchen, then another office. To one side is a hallway that leads to the bedroom. I take off my shoes slowly, giving myself time to recover. He is reaching for the light switch. 

"Don't!" I shout suddenly, my blood coursing through my veins in a wild surge. The idea of the stark white light in my face appalls me, but I am shocked by the vehemence in voice. His hand is frozen on top of the light switch, his head snapped back to look at me in mute surprise that mirrors my own.

"O-okay," he stutters, taking his hand off the switch as if the plastic burned. I place my shoes next to the doorway neatly, catching the amused smile on his face.

"What?" I ask, feeling my own face tug helplessly in response. There is something infectious about that smile of his, winsome in a way that is unconscious.

"Nothing," he replies hastily. There is a moment of truly awkward silence as he tries to think of where to put me. The living room is sparsely furnished, with a creamy white sofa and a small coffee table. Finally, he gestures to the sofa and offers it to me in a wordless fashion. I sit down, watching him almost fall into a spot close to me. He is arranged in a careless fashion on his seat, legs and arms in an organized disarray. He is the only one I know of that can pull off having a grace that seems reckless. I study him while he studies me. Another moment of silence.

"I didn't think you would come," he finally says, his eyes telling me that it is a confession.

"I didn't think I would come either," I say, and immediately I berate myself for sounding totally incoherent and foolish.

"I'm glad you did," he says softly, leaning slightly forward, then back again. I have no reply. "Would you like something to drink?" He is playing the part of the host, or at least making a weak attempt to.

"No, thank you."

We have reached the end of the script. Anything from here would be uncharted land. I feel myself begin to tremble.

"I think," he begins, then stops to gather up his courage. He starts again, "I think there's another reason that you're here."

He isn't stupid. Not that I ever thought he was, but he understands the hidden context of my visit. I can see desperation and hope clouding up his usually sharp eyes with murky water. He is hoping I will say no. But I cannot lie to him.

I nod. His breath catches in his throat. It hurts me to see the way his eyes shatter, like a mirror in his soul. But quickly, he recovers, placing a facile mask over his face and smiling. Another razor-edged knife pulls across my chest. There is jagged pain in his face that reflects my own. We are both hiding behind a pretense of words and formalities. For some reason, I almost believe that we could have communicated with eyes alone.

"Well," he says, "let's cut to the chase." And that is the invitation for me to say what I must say.

"Draco Malfoy, I am here to put you under arrest for assisting Lord Voldemort," he flinches at the name, "and murdering a large amount of fellow wizards and Muggles. You understand that the charges put against you are class one felonies. You may protest your innocence at your trial, or you can plead guilty." Hysteria starts to build at the edges of my mind, blurring the picture in front of me. 

Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease-

As if my pleading will help. He is still calm. For a moment, I feel like hitting that face.

"I plead guilty," he whispers, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Then you will be placed immediately under the custody of the Ministry of Magic. You will receive your sentence within 24 hours." The hysteria is building. If only I could reach up and shake his shoulders to release his calm. I want him to react humanly.

"The Dementor's Kiss?"

I hesitate, then nod again. My ceremonial attitude is quickly dissolving in the tense air of this situation. And I suddenly say what I had been dreading to say. "I'm sorry." Eyes downcast, I start to stare at his carpet. I can feel his eyes on me, boring into the sides of my head as if he were an x-ray. There are no words to say after mine. There is nothing for us to do. We could sit in silence forever.

"Can you not just kill me now?"

The question stuns me in a blinding flash of light. My heart skips its usually rhythm for a second, then returns to its pace with demonic speed. "Now?" He nods, and it is once again his frost eyes that tell me his meaning. He wants to escape the waiting and the hell that follows his fate. He wants to die. And I know that it is not what he deserves.

My black and white view tells me that he deserves to drown in misery to pay for the pain he has cost. But my heart tells me that even he does not deserve what is cut out for him in the tablet of justice. I have learned that no one does. But I have still put many through that grinding stone.

"You can say I violently refused to cooperate and that you were forced to use drastic measures." He speaks in a monotone that is frightening in its clarity. I can tell he has thought through this many times. 

How many nights has he spent, awake at 3 in the morning, thinking about his fate?

How many times has he wondered what the consequences were as he threw another human being savagely against the wall?

How many times has the dawn sent chilling cold waves of fear through his face?

No. I must not think about that now, not when I hide behind the black mask of the executioner.

"Do you want to die?" I ask, and it is a foolish question. Of course he did. 

He clears his throat. "Yes." My eyes lock into his in an agonizing moment of understanding and confusion. He is as lost as I am. Trembling, I take out my wand, the slim tool of so many deaths, and point it at his chest. The tremors in my body are flowing like currents into the wood. He leans forward and takes my hand in both of his, forcing the point further into his chest. 

His hands are winter and summer together, cold and warm, firm and yielding. He holds me to myself and closes his eyes, waiting for the absolution of Death. He is a fallen angel in the light of his darkness. The energy pulsating from him to me seems to be his life that he is offering.

It is a gift I cannot take.

"No," I murmur, letting my hand loosen on the wand. It falls gracelessly between us. We are still frozen in the position before, a wand's length away from each other, his hands still clasped around my right hand. A million thoughts of hopelessness course through the air between us, binding us forever to each other. He seems to be shaking too, his shoulders jerking in strange uneven movements. His hands fall away from mine.

"Ah," he breathes. There is destitution in his voice. He is resigning to his fate, his eyes closed to avoid my gaze. 

There is no way to describe what pain is until one has felt it burning in the dwelling of the heart. What poets say are only half the truth. The idea of knives twisting away is also partially true. Heartbreak is a million tiny needles stinging every time you breath. If you don't breath, you will die, but if you do, you will die from the utter anguish of the feeling. It pricks at your eyes, your nose, your face, your hands. It is connected to every nerve. It sheds a pale glare over your feelings, exposing them to the watchful eye of yourself.

All passions make us do things we would never dream of doing. Love just happens to be the one must ridiculous, most unthinkable. 

To say that at this moment I do not want to kill him is wrong. I do. He is my ultimate enemy, the burning need to destroy focused on one person. He is everything I despise and covet. He is my archenemy. But to say I do not love him is also wrong. He is my counterpart, the only one to perfectly fit against me in the jigsaw of life. His hands against mine proved it, the jolt of skin over skin showing the way our edges fit together. 

So even as he leans back, I lean forward, and I impulsively catch his hands in mine, desperate to recover the feeling of perfection. He keeps his eyes closed, an unspeakable emotion covering his face in a shroud. He has stopped moving as if he is trapped. We are both locked in our private hells, reaching out to one another in a tragic way. He clasps my fingers around his own, leaning into the embrace of our hands. I close my eyes in return; briefly through my eyelashes I see that he opened his. And he takes that moment to press his lips against mine. 

One might say, he did it out of desperation. He did. But it is the desperation of death and love dancing a waltz in his soul. The phantom with the lady is a sickeningly flawless pair. Logic is pushed out of that little dance, cast into the shadow of a corner. He and I are free for a few precious seconds to enjoy the turbulent music of their dance.

There is no desire in his kiss, only plaintive pathos splashed on an already star-crossed love. We are simply fit once more together, he stinging with the backlash of his path and I stung with the backlash of mine. Momentarily, we are soaring through the horizons of a world already closing its gates. We dodge the clouds in a fearless flight. His lips are yielding and caressing, an answer to a love we both are seeking. He is all rose petals and white wine.

And it is his kiss that breaks away at the last of my resolve. A string of pearls in the shape of tears flows in rivulets down my cheeks. There is no shame and no embarrassment. It is only perfection that was forced to masquerade as sadness, the outburst of everything I could not express in words or actions.

We break away from each other, breathless once more, hands still clasped. In the briefest of moments, I am still sitting up straight, and then I fall. A slow motion descent, unconscious of my own movement, takes me to him, and I find myself resting against his chest. Our hands are crushed between us. He unclasps one of my hands and reaches up to lift my chin. The touch is softer than the promise of rain. I keep my eyes closed, my glasses pushed askew. His breath is a whisper of silken threads against my cheek.

Gently, he takes off my glasses and runs his fingertips across the moisture trickling down. The motion sends a cascade of sparks through my body, and I laugh, faint against his fingers.

"I'd always thought that, in this kind of situation, you would be the one crying," I murmur, my chest constricting my voice until it sounds pained.

"What makes you think," he answers in a voice just as tight and strange as mine, "that I'm not?" And opening my eyes, I realize that he too was crying. Flecks of glass fall down his skin. His tears are cold and bitter against my cheek, an opposition to my scorching ones. He is trying to smile through the curtain of tears. 

"What about…" I trail off, leaving the question open ended. But he understands the meaning behind it, and he runs his fingers through my hair to comfort me.

"Sleep with me tonight, and in the morning, don't wake me up." It is an unspoken plea.

I nod. He leans in again, and I surrender myself to his embrace.

***

I did sleep with him last night.

It isn't how it sounds. We were both dressed when we climbed into his bed, and now, in the morning, both of us are still dressed. During the night, we had whispered and laughed and joked, playing with each other's hair and fingers, trailing lines of fire against skin. He held me close and pushed me an arm's length away, saying over and over how much he loved me. He could have charmed the sun right out of the sky with his ardor. His eyes reflecting the night stars held me in their enfolding grasp. We were endless, both of us, starting where the other ended and ending where the other began. 

But it is morning now, the harsh reality sanding away at the polish of emotions. The light is spilling out through the shelter of glass that is the window. He lies peacefully in his pristine sheets, sleeping. One hand is tucked under the pillow. There is a powder of rose and shadows over his skin. Strands of delicate white-blond slide down into his face, resting against the bridge of his nose. His eyelashes are molten silver crescents against his skin. His shirt is sliding off of one shoulder, exposing more velvety pale skin. 

I lie next to him, watching him sleep. His other arm is draped protectively around my waist, pulling me to him. We had fallen asleep tangled in each other's embrace, a jumble of arms and legs and bodies. I can feel his pulse around me. His warmth seeps through his clothes and stains itself on my skin. I lean in closer, a moth to the flame.

It is morning now, and I must do as I am destined to do.

I untangle myself from his hold, trying my best to not wake him up. There is poignancy in the expression on his face, a delicate balance of a smile and a frown that wrenches at my heart. I stifle the choking feeling in my throat and chest, padding stiffly to his living room where my wand still lies on the couch. Forlorn looking in the dim morning, it seems to warm up to my touch. It is innocent looking, but it is the weapon of choice. I am the executioner once again.

He sleeps, unaware of my movements. Deep within him somewhere, he knows that his end will come soon. The morning's first light signaled the start of the end, but he is lost in his tender sleep. A beautiful smile graces his lips, a pleasant dream or memory perhaps. He is a paradigm of contentment. Even as I tread into the room, my hand gripped around my wand.

I look away as my wand taps lightly against his forehead, letting it slide until it reaches the groove of his temple, the dark wood contrasting wickedly against his skin . I pretend it is not him and think of faces, Crabbe, Goyle, Wormtail, but my eyes continue to betray me. I continue to see the light blond hair against his face, his gray eyes closed in sleep. 

And yet the Killing curse slips from my tongue, the two fateful words passing through my lips, formed by my tongue, to dangle in the air of his bedroom. 

I turn back around, a cry of anguish drowning out the green flash that blinds me momentarily. And as the aftershock of the flash fades away from my eyes, I am confronted by his devastatingly overwhelmingly beautiful face, lost in its dreamless eternal sleep.

Silver, moonlit hair, flowing in delicate strands to the base of his neck.

Light eyelashes, long and soft against his cheek.

An empty hand, curled against the mattress.

A smile across his lips.

I grip his hand in mute appeal as the warmth fades from his body. 

***

A half hour later, the Ministry of Magic was contacted. They sent a small team of officials to the house. 

On entering the house and finding the bedroom, they were might by the sight of their most brilliant and brightest Auror, Harry Potter, crying bitterly over the body of Draco Malfoy. Silently, they did as they were commanded to do with the body. The black-haired young man refused to loosen his hold on the dead man's hand until the very end. They asked no questions and demanded no answers.

By the time the reporters had arrived, both the living and the dead were carted out. There was no trace of anything out of the ordinary.

The headline of the Daily Prophet the next day was about the bribery of a Quidditch referee. The article on the death of Draco Malfoy, prominent Death Eater and now-fallen leader of masses of Voldemort supporters, was about 2 paragraphs long, tucked away in a small corner of the last page.

***

My defeat of Lord Voldemort 3 months later marked the end of the Resurrection Wars, as it had been called by the wizarding community. My faithful friends were there beside me, but I felt no kinship in their warmth. I killed him with clinical apathy, going through the actions of victory in an empty shell.

My battle had already been lost. It was a battle against fate and destiny, the destiny that either me or Draco had to die for a victory. 

Forever, the names of Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Ron Weasly, Hermione Granger, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black are marked in the history books as heroes.

His name is there too, a line or so in paragraphs on Death Eaters and Voldemort supporters. History will always view him as the villain. 

If someone asks me now, did I or do I love him, I can only say, maybe. I knew him, truly and fully knew him, for the total of 7 hours. If I had had more than that, I know I would have fallen completely, madly in love with him, troubled youth as he was. He was the closest person I have ever come to loving as a lover does. But his was a story of one who would have been better off not loving than loving and losing. 

A few days after the end of the Resurrection Wars, an article came out about Draco Malfoy. He was portrayed as a troubled youth in an evil family line who was brainwashed into doing what he did.

No one will ever truly understand Draco Malfoy. His is a story of disillusionment taken for honor, weakness mistaken for strength, and lies mistaken as truth. He was responsible for what he did. We cannot blame others for his actions. But what led him up to this fatal actions is the fault of others. 

Of all the people in the world, perhaps I do know him best. His father and mother are dead, both committing honorable suicide. He had no friends that could divulge his inner personality. I am the only one to witness his dying hours. He told me what he could in that sliver of a night. Perhaps, someday, I will show the world what I know of Draco Malfoy. 

But as of yet, I do not have the heart to dissect the frightened child who climbed on the Hogwarts Express.

I cannot take apart the young boy who offered me his hand and looked away when I refused it.

I cannot brutally assess the youth who knew he would take the path of his father.

I cannot analyze the actions he did as a Death Eater.

I can only close my eyes and remember a young man who cried when he kissed me.

They spread the ashes of his body over a bridge, drowning them in the water. There is an empty grave next to his mother and father's grave in the Malfoy residence.

But I burn incense for him at a grave I set up for him. The tombstone is blank. There is no empty coffin. It is set up on an empty hill, a clutch of wild roses sprawling over the stone. 

And I shed flowers and tears for him there.

__

A million roads, a million fears

A million suns, ten million years of uncertainty

I could speak a million lies, a million songs,

A million rights, a million wrongs in this balance of time

But if there was a single truth, a single light

A single thought, a singular touch of grace,

Then following this single point, this single flame,

This single haunted memory of your face…

===

A/N: The ending was strange. Yeah. So…

A Thousand Years belongs to Sting.

Reviews, anyone?

Thanks for everything, by the way. If you actually read up to this point, I congratulate you.


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